SpikeandDawnand... oh, Goddess.
Connie, did I mention that I love you?
I've been drabbling. Completely failing to write for the sunday100, but lots of drabbles, all the same. Mostly with no point and more to be writing *something* than with any real felling in them.
~~~
Buffyverse--
He sprinkles salt on all his food. It’s a habit—perhaps his mother did it, perhaps they told him not to and he’s making up for lost time. I sit, watching, sipping the pig’s blood I haven’t got any appetite for.
“Are you going out tonight, Spike?”
“I might. Why? Are you afraid you’ll miss Enterprise if I stay in?”
The quips are the easy part—they’re my only protection now, the gloss that keeping me from cracking completely simply because it’s habitual.
“I don’t… the remote’s mine, okay?”
He reaches for the salt again. Habits are hard to break.
~~~
M*A*S*H--
Practical jokes, puns, funny lines—they’re the stuff of life to Hawkeye.
I’m not quick and clever like that, but I get along okay. All the forms the army needs? They’re like wordplay. Colonel Blake—Hawkeye called him Henry, but that doesn’t feel right to me—just used to let me sort them, sign where I said sign, never sure what they meant.
Colonel Potter isn’t like that, and he’s better but worse all at once. He understands the forms, and likes Hawkeye, but he’ll never get how it is between us. It’s hidden in too many layers of puns.
~~~
Starsky and Hutch--
“Starsk?” Hutch whispered into the darkness, needing to know… something, and praying that his partner could help. “Starsky?”
“I’m here, Hutch,” Starsky said.
Dimly, Hutch thought, So. That’s what I needed to know.
“What’s’matter?” Starsky asked, and Hutch felt the bed dip and a touch on his arm as Starsky moved towards him.
Hutch didn’t know, and said so.
“You,” Starsky told him, “are a great big sap.” Hutch nearly disagreed, but the arms around him were so comforting that he conceded the point.
Instead, he said, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Bit late for that now.” Starsky kissed him.
~~~
I started a Star Wars one, but when it hit three hundred words and still had lots of ideas, I decided I'd better let it be a story, not just a drabble.
Am, who's Spike talking to? I'm thinking Andrew or Xander.
In my head? Xander. In that lovely slashable space where they were living together, round about "Sleeper".
However, if you choose to put Andrew in, that would also work.
It has suddenly just reoccured to me their names were David Starsky and Kenneth Hutchinson. Kenny and Dave.
Odd, what surfaces.
Okay, disclaimer city: this is just a first scene, and I normally hate to post incomplete things in case I never finish them. Also? Never written Batman before. But I'm feeling a little stalled and hoping that if I release it into the wild, I might pick up the momentum I've lost.
****
It's a long time after midnight when he hops an empty train through downtown Gotham and beyond, taking the yellow line through the gentrifying neighborhoods where the young techies go to raise their charmingly multilingual children; then, as the train comes back above ground, past miles of working-class row houses, each looking like the next as the small hard-fought differences between them disappear into the dark. The train rattles and lurches, its brakes squealing at every curve and every stop, but nobody gets on or off, so it just moves on.
Finally, at 37th avenue, a drunk stumbles from the security of a pillar on the platform to the security of a bench inside the train. From the roof, the bat watches him, and the train keeps going.
Twombley Avenue is the end of the line. The drunk from 37th is fast asleep by now; he'll head back into town with the returning train, but the bat alights almost silently and heads down the rusted iron staircase to the street. Tucked under the elevated platform, a row of dark windows displays cheap Asian souvenirs behind their metal security grilles. Across the avenue, the fairgrounds are closed for the night.
He climbs the iron gate. His instinct after all these years is to scan for those intermediate places that will allow him to go over in a couple of quick leaps, almost like flying, or failing that to use one of his toys, but tonight he wants to do it the way he used to when he was just a pissed-off kid climbing into or out of trouble. He wants to feel his shoulder muscles strain and then catch as he pulls him up the vertical bars, feel the press of iron through the thin soles of his boots as he walks his feet up them. It would be even better if he could feel the rust and old lead paint and raw metal digging into his bare hands, but he's already halfway up when he thinks of it, and it's too late to stop to take the gauntlets off. And it works. He has to stop to rest at the top, and he looks out over the darkened lights and the roller coaster on the near horizon before he drops down into the darkened fairgrounds.
After hours, when the crowds have gone, only the freaks are left.
A twisted little carnie is hosing the cigarette butts and empty cotton candy cones out of the middle of the walkway next to a trailer painted with the legends TWO HEAD BABY -- WORLDS SMALLEST PIG -- GAINT RAT. The water leaves the sidewalks shining in the reflected light of the streetlights, the moon, and the bat signal.
Thank you, my dear! you shall have more as soon as I've got more to post. Off again to play in the dark, deserted places....
Amych, that's damned fun.
But GAINT rat? Is that deliberate?
Gaint or giant, it's very in-pulling. More, please, amy.
Definitely more. But I was genuinely curious - was that deliberate, that spelling? Park of the stage-setting, I mean? Because it would be a very cool touch....
